


Full Circle

by calrissian18



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (Wolfsbane) Drug Abuse, Flirting With Infidelity (HA!), Language, M/M, PoV Switching (It Sucks. I Know. But 'Tis Necessary), Sheriff Equals John, Stilinski Family Feels, angst like whoa!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-13 01:08:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calrissian18/pseuds/calrissian18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because Stiles <i>should</i> walk away, it doesn't mean he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full Circle

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for stop_drop_howl on livejournal. The premise is to be given an ambiguous prompt and you write a fic from it within 24-hours of being tagged.
> 
> ...
> 
> Or if you're time-illiterate like me: 12. So this was written very, _very_ quickly. Too quickly, one might say.
> 
> My prompt was: _Summer Lovin'_ and I swear, I am not suicidally depressed. I know it probably seems like that because I took a prompt as happy as _Summer Lovin’_ and did this with it but I’m all good. Sort of. I’m a bit concerned _now_.
> 
> Special thanks to jonjokeat for looking this over and making it... words that go in order to form proper sentences (this is what I'm like without any help). I LOVE YOU FOREVER, MY DEAR! And queenie_mab for pre-reading for me! You guys are THE BEST!

John struggles through the side door with appropriate cursing and muttering.  A soft sound draws his attention to the corner of the kitchen.  His son is sitting up on the counter, snickering at him and popping ham and cheese rolls into his mouth.  Those kind of sparse resources are the reason John's loaded down with the grocery bags.  He tries not to show his surprise as he plops them down on the counter.  It's his kid's second visit this week.  He can still remember right after Stiles had graduated and after he'd moved in with Derek when he'd had to all but pull out his weapon to get him there once a month.

He keeps his head down, unloading the perishables and does an ocular pat-down of his kid.  He looks beaten-down, _old_ , older than John know he is.  The skin under his eyes is painted with a darker brush these days and there are crow's feet spiderwebbing out from the corners.  Stiles has always slouched but his shoulders look like an Achilles' heel now, the slightest nick or the lightest addition to the already unbearable load and he'll crumble beneath it.

John has always looked at his son and seen the hyperactive six-year-old that would run around at his knees, nearly tripping him up at every opportunity.  Now he looks at Stiles and see an adult with his own shit.  He sees a man responsible for the world and he knows, in a way, it's what should happen.  He'd still step in and carry it all for Stiles if he could only figure out how.

He leans back against the counter next to Stiles' knee and tries not to let on that he can see all the cracks in his kid's facade.  "Here again, are we?  What, Derek doesn't feed you?"  He laughs, and turns his back to restock the pantry so Stiles won't see how forced it is.  He's half-terrified Stiles will ask for his advice one of these days and half-terrified he won't.  John's come to think of Derek as a second son and he doesn't want to know if he's about to lose another piece of his family, not before he has to.

It's been six years since they sat him down on Stiles’ eighteenth birthday and revealed the werewolf thing and the dating thing in one fell swoop – though he suspects they were at least flirting with the idea a few years before that.  It went something like:  
  
‘Werewolves are real.  Monsters _do_ go bump in the night.  Look, Dad, no eyebrows.’  
  
…  
  
‘Oh, right, you know Derek?’ Stiles had winced and pointed at the recently-revealed-werewolf as though John had somehow forgotten his name in the wake of the revelation.  (To be fair, he sort of had.)  ‘He’s—we—’ Stiles had given up, reached over and laced his fingers through Derek’s.  He held up their linked hands. ‘Things,’ he’d said in that Stiles-way where it shouldn't have explained anything but somehow spelled out _everything_.

John was ashamed to admit it now, but he’d reacted worst to the dating.  That had flipped drastically as the weeks wore on and he came to know Derek as more than a twenty-something murder suspect and a defintion-compliant monster.  He was damaged and did nothing to hide it but he loved Stiles.  John hadn't been impressed, he'd known by the time Stiles was twelve that he was going to have a lot people fall in love with him over the course of his life.

It wasn't until Stiles was lying in a hospital bed, small and broken, that John gave the relationship his blessing.  Derek had refused to visit for days before he finally broke down, stormed in, and screamed himself hoarse over his son's unconscious body.  Because even though, in that moment, Derek _hated_ Stiles, _hated_ the choices he'd made and the recklessness he displayed with his own life, he still loved him.

Because Derek loves Stiles for everything he is and nothing he isn't and he wouldn't change any part of him.  Even if he could.  And that's not an easy thing to come by.  John's only had it once, with Stiles' mom, and he doesn't expect to have it again.

Stiles grins at him from his seat by the fridge but it doesn't reach his eyes.  Little has lately.  John still sees it when Derek walks into a room, the way Stiles' whole face lights up, but he realizes right then that he hasn’t seen them in the same room together in months.  “I require hourly feedings,” Stiles says and he sounds tired, frayed around the edges from where he’s trying to pull the thread tighter to keep everything from unraveling.  He glances to the side, eyes bright.  “Derek refuses to acknowledge that.”  
  
Stiles’ feet aren’t swinging the way they always do when he sits up in that spot.  It could be a sign of growing up but John had kind of hoped Stiles wouldn’t do too much of that.  “You all right, son?”  
  
Stiles doesn’t quite meet his eyes and he’s still grinning, as if looking happy will be as satisfying to his dad as _being_ happy.  “Hunky-dory, fit as a fiddle, other outdated terms.”  
  
John knows he’s pushing his luck.  Well, just pushing, when he says, “You and Derek still going strong then?”  
  
Stiles looks pained but he squirrels it away quickly.  His mouth drops open and he feigns a scandalized look.  “This is my punishment for enjoying some watery ham and questionable-looking cheese, an interrogation by the Beacon Hills County Sheriff?  That seems a bit cruel and unusual, sir.”  
  
“ _My_ watery ham and questionable-looking cheese,” John points out, playing along because Stiles seems to need it.  He wants to ask more about Derek but he thinks it might make Stiles leave, make him stop thinking of this as a place he can go when he can’t go home and John would never do anything to take that away from him.  Still, he can’t completely leave it alone.  He shrugs and tries to sound casual.  “And it’s hardly an interrogation to ask how you and Derek are.  He’s practically my son-in-law.  I get to be curious.”  
  
“ _Fine_ ,” Stiles says and it’s a bit too harsh if he’s pretending everything is.  Fine, that is.  Stiles knows it too.  He shakes it off and his mouth tilts to the side the way it does when he thinks he’s being funny and no one else will appreciate it.  “We’re hunky-dory, fit as—”  
  
John holds up his hand with a roll of his eyes.  There’s still some of his son left in there.  Some of him that hasn't been crushed by the world and John finds himself incredibly grateful for that.  It’s enough for now.

 

* * *

Stiles flicks his thumbnail against the rim of his beer bottle.  His eyes are hooded but he’s still watching as Derek gathers up his keys from the bowl by the door.  Stiles had bought it so Derek would stop spending fifteen minutes every morning looking for them when that precious time could’ve been spent fucking him into their mattress.  He shrugs on his jacket.  The one Stiles had gotten him for his birthday two years ago.  He pats the left pocket for his phone.  Stiles had dragged him to T-Mobile and made him upgrade so they could be on the Family Plan together with his dad.  Derek had done it because back then Derek would have done anything for him, even admit to being an honorary Stilinski.  
  
Stiles clears his throat and tries to keep any emotion out of his voice when he says, “Going out?”  
  
Derek nods, distracted as he looks for his wallet.  “Was thinking about it, yeah,” and it’s only slightly condescending.  Derek looks up like he realizes it was still _slightly_ condescending.  He frowns apologetically.  
  
Stiles tries to smile.  He’s glad his heartbeat won’t give away that it's a lie.  Though he supposes it doesn’t really matter.  Derek knows him well enough after eight years to know when those aren’t real.  He forces out a laugh and tips his bottle towards Derek.  “You gonna leave me to drink alone?”  
  
Derek looks regretful for half a minute.  He shoves his wallet into his back pocket and squeezes his hand tighter around his keys.  “I won’t be long.”  
  
Stiles’ smile flutters weakly and he mutters, “That’s what you always say,” before remembering that he lives with a werewolf and absolutely _nothing_ is private.  
  
Derek frowns.  “I won’t be long,” he says with more conviction.  
  
Stiles hauls himself off the couch and says, “Sure.”  His smile more forced now.  He walks into their bedroom, holding his beer bottle by the neck with loose fingers.  He hears the front door close behind him.

* * *

The beer bottles are in a messy line on Stiles’ nightstand, four of them marching across the surface like indecisive ants.  He passes out before he can finish the fifth.  It’s sitting on the floor by his sneakers, cap still on.  He drifts up into a light doze from deep sleep when Derek climbs into bed.  Warm arms wrap around him from behind and a nose presses in behind his ear.  
  
It takes a lot of coaxing for Stiles’ eyes to open.  He’s almost too exhausted for it.  The cool blue numbers of his alarm clock blare the time too brightly.  5:21.  Stiles wants to pull away from the body clinging to his back but he’s too tired to pick a fight now.  He’s been too tired to pick a fight for weeks.  He closes his eyes again.  
  
It’s some time later, it feels like hours have passed, and he’s sleeping hard when he hears Derek say from very far away, “I’m sorry.”  
  
He doesn’t remember it in the morning.

* * *

It’s Boyd’s birthday and they’re going out to some obscure club that he and Erica frequent and Stiles _really_ doesn’t want to go because faking happiness is nearly impossible around a group of werewolves.  But it’s Boyd and Erica.  It’s pack and so Stiles sucks it the fuck up and tries to find something to wear.  Once upon a time, he would have let Derek dress (and undress) him.  But he’s not back yet.  From work, or so he says.  
  
He does some freelance jobs for the mechanic in town and he feeds Stiles all kinds of bull about getting called in last minute to help on a car or whatever the fuck it is.  Stiles doesn’t care anymore.  He waits at home and he cooks Derek dinner and he doesn’t cry when they sit down to eat it.  That's a successful night for them.  
  
Stiles’ phone buzzes on the nightstand.  A glance at the caller id says it’s Derek.  “Hey, you nearly here?”  
  
“I don’t think I’m going to make it.”  There’s trepidation in his tone but it’s buried under the challenge.  
  
Stiles sits down on the bed, his shirt half-buttoned.  “It’s Boyd’s birthday.”  
  
“I know, I—” Derek huffs out a frustrated breath.  “Hascomb brought in another junker.  The money’s too good to pass up.”  
  
Stiles bites his lip.  “We’re not hurting so bad that you can’t take the night off.”  
  
“That apartment isn’t cheap, Stiles,” Derek snaps.  
  
Stiles can feel the fight building in him, ire licking up his insides.  His fist clenches on the bedspread.  “So we’ll _move_.”  
  
Derek talks to him like he’s a child when he says, “What, just pick up and leave our place because I can’t go to some—”  
  
“You’re right,” Stiles cuts him off, grits out, “It’s fine.  I’ll make your excuses.  I—I’m sure they’ll understand.”  
  
“Stiles.”  Derek sighs and he sounds as tired as Stiles feels.  “I’d rather be there with you, I just—”  
  
Stiles chokes down a sob and says quickly, tightly, “I have to go.  I’ll be late.  I’ll s—talk to you later, Derek.”  Stiles hangs up before Derek can respond.  He lets his phone drop to the bed and digs his palms into his eyes, physically pushing away his tears.  He stands and shakes out his hands.  He gives himself five minutes.  Five minutes to get his shit together and then he has to pack it all away because tonight is about Boyd and not his momentous crap with Derek.  
  
His jeans have holes in them and he’s gone with a black button-up and gray oxfords.  It’s the best he can do.  No one cares what he’s wearing when he walks in.  The smiles and hugs that greet him are more genuine than he’s had in months and he can’t remember why he hadn’t wanted to come.  Their smiles falter when he tells them Derek won't make it but they bounce back quickly enough.  
  
Stiles has too much to drink and before long he finds himself in the corner with a frowning Scott.  
  
He’d told Scott.  Two weeks ago, he’d told Scott.  What he'd been letting fester for _months_.  What some Omega had blown into town and hissed into his skin.  What he'd said he'd smelled on Derek.  Stiles can still remember the hot, damp, rotting breath on his jaw, the heavy body pressed to his back and the claws sharp at his neck.  He'd leaned in, keyed up and eager, and whispered all Derek's secrets into Stiles's ear.  Derek had killed him only moments later.

But not before Stiles _knew_.

He'd stared at Derek's back, watching the heaving of his shoulders as he stood over the broken body of the wolf that had dared touch him.  Stiles had let himself be taken into Derek's relieved embrace even as a large part of him wanted to squirm away.

He'd waited _months_ before climbing through Scott's window, a role reversal if ever there was one, and crying the whole sad story onto his shoulder.  Scott had been so terrified.  He’d kept asking if something had happened, if it was Derek, if Stiles was okay and Stiles had blurted out, ‘He’s been _on something_ for months.’  
  
Scott had just blinked at him.  
  
‘It’s some—’ Stiles had sniffed, rubbed at his nose and gasped out this horribly twisted laugh he hadn’t known he could make.  ‘I looked it up.  It’s basically smack for werewolves.  It’s dangerous and addictive and it _ruins you_ and I didn’t even _notice_.’  
  
Scott had tried to say all the right things, had tried to convince Stiles maybe it was all some elaborate lie made up by an asshole Omega.  But Stiles knew the truth when he heard it, even after going months without it.  He’d sworn Scott to secrecy.  His dad still loved Derek and the pack couldn’t smell it on him because they didn’t know what the smell _was_ so no one else had to know.  
  
Scott’s hand squeezes his knee, a touch too hard but Stiles understands.  He feels like something is slipping away.  Stiles does too.  They’re StilesandDerek and they don’t have problems.  They’re so grotesquely in love with each other that other couples _model_ their relationships after them.  The fact that they’re forever is a given to everyone around them.  Stiles is pretty sure he’s the only person in town who has doubts about that now.  
  
He knows he’s had too much to drink when he looks over at Scott with wet eyes and croaks, “We don’t talk about it.”  Because they don’t talk about anything anymore.  Stiles is too afraid to push, to force the conversation.  Too afraid that it would lead to Derek ending things.  Instead he tries to be what they were but they simply _aren’t_ anymore.  Stiles is drinking scotch, his dad’s drink, and things have just come full fucking circle, haven't they?  He wonders if it’s worse to mourn someone who’s died or someone who’s still alive but no longer exists.  And he’s too fucking drunk if he’s thinking morose shit like that.  He presses his thumb into his glass.  “He knows I know—I think he knows.”  Stiles snorts.  “He leaves and pretends he’s not going off to do what it is he does.”  
  
Scott looks up at him, devastated, and guilt seizes Stiles’ throat.  It’s like Scott’s being told his parents are splitting all over again.  Only he’s more invested this time.  “Have you _tried_ talking to him about it?” Scott asks desperately.  
  
Stiles almost laughs.  “Derek and I don’t talk.”  They don’t even fuck anymore.  Stiles swallows and digs his thumbs into his tumbler, letting the diamond pattern cut into the pads of his fingers.  “I thought it was an affair,” he admits hoarsely.  “For the longest time, I thought he was having an affair.  That he'd found—”  
  
Scott’s mouth falls open and he blurts, “No.”  He grabs Stiles’ shoulder as though he can shake that thought out of his head.  “There’s no one else for him, Stiles.  You’re the only thing he sees.  You know that."  
  
Stiles shakes his head because Scott doesn’t _get it_.  He licks his lip and says carefully, “The _point_ , Scott, is that I stayed.  I stayed when I thought that every time he was walking out our door he was getting into someone else’s bed.”  And Stiles’ nostrils flare and he clamps down on the emotion rising in his chest.  Because _that_ is not who he is.  He is not the boy who sobs all over himself in a bar.  He’s a different brand of pathetic. “That’s who I am, Scott.”  He chuckles weakly.  “I’m the boy who stays.  When he so, _so_ shouldn’t.”  
  
Scott’s eyes are glassy now too and Stiles knows there are things he wants to say.  Things he’d said when Stiles had first told him.  That Derek wasn’t doing this to hurt him, that Derek loved him, that they’d get through this because they _had_ _to_ get through this because Scott had latched on to their relationship when his and Allison's had fallen apart, like it was proof that true love not only existed but that it lasted.  He doesn’t say any of those things now and Stiles knows it isn’t because he thinks they’re any less true.  
  
Stiles kicks his foot out under the table.  “I don’t think it’s supposed to be this hard.”  It _can’t_ be this hard, otherwise no one would ever do it.  He doesn’t know if you can love someone and not hurt them but he doesn’t think it should be constant agony either.  He huffs out a laugh and says, “But I'm the idiot who loves him too much to leave, to make the _better_ choice, the _right_ choice.  And I know it is.  I know it's what needs to be done."  
  
“Stiles.”  Scott swallows and it _pains_ him to say it but he does it anyway.  “So why don't you—"  
  
"Because I _can't_ ,” Stiles bursts out and that’s the whole of it.  He _can’t_ leave Derek.  He can’t walk away from him.  He just _can’t_.  “I _can't_ and I hate myself for it."

* * *

Stiles was right when he’d caught himself earlier, said ‘talk’ instead of ‘see’ on the phone with Derek.  He climbs into bed around four in the morning, because mechanics usually work until the middle of the night, right?  Stiles pushes down the anger and frustration that wants to pour out as tears.  How can this be his life?  “How was Boyd’s thing?” Derek asks softly, sounding caring and warm.  
  
Stiles knows if he rolls over, he’ll see pupils the size of bullet holes.  “Fine.”  
  
“Did you have fun?” Derek says, pressing his mouth to Stiles’ neck, leaving tender half-kisses behind the faded warmth of his lips.  His hands are slipping under Stiles’ ratty tee shirt, sliding up his stomach.  
  
Stiles elbows him away before his cock can grow interested.  “Don’t.  I’m tired.  I just want to sleep.”  
  
There’s silence in their bedroom.  Derek shuffles up behind him after a minute and says, almost defiantly, “I just want to hold you while you sleep then.”

* * *

Stiles wakes before Derek and watches him sleep.  There are lines around his eyes, under the dark smudge of his lashes, and brackets around his mouth that hadn’t been there the last time Stiles had gotten such a good look at him.  He rubs his thumb over the creases of Derek’s forehead and they smooth while Derek shifts in his sleep.  Stiles pulls away until he’s sure Derek won’t wake.  He lets his fingernails trail over the stubble on Derek’s cheek while he stares at the cracks in his lips.  His hair is flat in the back and sticking up in every direction everywhere else.  He looks like he's been permanently set to exhausted.  
  
A lump starts to form in Stiles’ throat and he presses his nose up under Derek’s chin and whispers, “I love you so much.”  
  
Once upon a time, Derek would have woken up with a grin and pulled him close to ravage him.  Those days have passed.  Because now Derek doesn't sleep, he passes out.  
  
Stiles isn’t too hung over thankfully.  He drinks water instead of orange juice and takes an Aspirin as a precaution.  He leaves out Derek’s breakfast, pressing a kiss to his forehead and letting him know it’s there, before leaving for work.  He’d gotten a job at the local bookstore last summer.  It doesn’t pay much and he only works a few hours four or five days a week but Derek had said that didn’t matter.  Stiles still has no idea what he wants to do with his Biology degree and he’s just… playing things by ear.  
  
When he walks through the door at six, Derek’s clearly on his way out.  Stiles’ stomach drops.  He clears his throat.  “Derek?”  Derek stops what he’s doing and looks up at him.  “Maybe we could stay in tonight?” Stiles tries tentatively.  “Just the two of us?  It's been awhile since we’ve—”  
  
Derek grins but it looks forced.  “I won’t be long.  When I get back, we can—”  
  
Stiles shuts down.  “I think I'll just go to bed early.”  
  
Derek walks over, kisses his cheek.  “I’ll try not to wake you,” he says, looking at Stiles the way Derek’s only ever looked at Stiles, with his eyes warm and half-lidded and gooey.  Like he’s too good to be real.  
  
Stiles hates that look now.  He shrugs his shoulder and says flatly, “Sure.”  He wipes his cheek after Derek’s left.

* * *

Derek does wake him.  He always wakes him because some part of Stiles will forever be waiting for him to come home.  He fumbles into bed, hikes up the covers so they won't trap his feet, punches up his pillow, and then Stiles feels him quiet in indecision.  Stiles always turns away from Derek’s empty half of the bed now and once upon a time Derek would have simply curled up around him and fallen asleep.  Only Stiles has been pushing him away more often than not.  
  
Derek sighs and Stiles feels a hand curve over his bicep.  Derek hooks his chin over Stiles' shoulder and Stiles squeezes his eyes shut tight and it’s _so fucking hard_ to hate him and for one night Stiles just doesn’t want to do it anymore.  He rolls over and slides his arms around Derek’s back.  
  
Derek looks surprised and Stiles can see his eyes flashing in the dark.  They’re not Derek’s.  Not anymore.  Stiles closes his own and presses his mouth to the corner of Derek’s.  And then Derek is pressing him into the bed, kissing him frenzied and fast because it’s been _weeks_.  He’s pulling Stiles’ clothes off and Stiles opens his eyes. What he finds is a cheap imitation of someone he loves.  Maybe the imitation is better though, better than the _nothing_ he’d have without it.  He doesn't know what the right answer is anymore.  
  
“I’ve missed you—missed _this_ ,” Derek breathes into his hair.  
  
Stiles holds Derek’s face between his hands and Derek presses a kiss to each of his palms and it’s almost enough to trick Stiles into thinking they’re going to be okay.  Derek presses inside him and Stiles _groans_ because he’s felt so empty for so long.  He thinks Derek will fuck him like he’s feral but he moves slow, drags it out, touches Stiles _everywhere_.  Derek makes love to him and Stiles likes to think the only reason they can do that is because there’s still some left between them.  
  
Derek comes with a soft grunt moments after Stiles.  Stiles clenches around him to hold him inside for as long as he can.  Derek props himself up on his elbow and cards his fingers through Stiles’ sweaty hair.  Stiles smiles up at him uncertainly and says the only thing he can think of, “Hi.”  
  
Derek mouth curves into a tender grin.  “Hi.”  
  
And Stiles’ eyes start to water stupidly.  He turns away under the guise of checking the clock on his bedside table.  “It’s late,” he says croakily.  
  
Derek’s grin falters slightly and he presses his mouth to Stiles’ throat.  “I know.”  He nudges in harder under Stiles’ chin.  “I know.  I’m sorry, Stiles.  I’m so sorry.”  His back tenses and trembles under Stiles’ hands and Stiles squeezes Derek tighter to show he won’t let go.  He won't let go.  Derek falls asleep only minutes later.  
  
Stiles doesn’t.

* * *

Erica’s in their apartment when Stiles wakes up the next morning.  She’s tall and gorgeous and happy and Erica.  Derek looks relaxed around her, as though he’s rediscovering how much he likes tall, gorgeous, happy Erica the longer she stays.  “I’ve talked Derek into Iron Man again,” she says, her grin sharp.  Like it required some literal arm-twisting.  She looks as though she'll be happy to keep that method of persuasion going if need be when she asks, “You coming?”  
  
Stiles’ smile wobbles a little.  “I have work.”  He knows they can both hear the lie but he’s stopped caring about that.  He doesn’t see the point when Derek doesn’t care that Stiles can hear his.  
  
Erica looks uneasy but Derek just looks pissed.  “I thought you were off today,” he growls and it’s not a question.  
  
Stiles shrugs.  “Got called in.”  He guesses it happens to bookshop employees about as often as it happens to freelance mechanics.  Erica shoots a pleading glance at him over Derek’s shoulder.  He almost thinks their friends love the idea of them together more than they do.  
  
“Stiles.”  And Derek sheds the anger as quickly as its come.  Now he just seems desperate.  “We could wait.”  
  
Stiles shakes his head, forces a smile.  “It’s fine.  You should go.”  He pauses turning back to their bedroom and says hesitantly, “Will I see you tonight?”  
  
“Yeah, probably.”  Which is as good as a no.

* * *

One of John's deputies is flirting with his son.  It’s not a completely new experience for him.  His son is an attractive kid and John’s been subjected to the spectacles of both women and men making their appreciation known.  But Stiles’ response had always been the same: blushing and stammering like an idiot while he got out some kind of polite rejection.  _This_ , however, is a new experience.  
  
Jeffries is his newest hire.  He’s only just finished out his third shift at the Beacon Hills Police Department.  Even so, John would bet everything he had in the bank that the man knew his son had a boyfriend.  Both he and Stiles are pretending he doesn’t.  His hand is on Stiles’ thigh and he’s saying something in Stiles’ ear that is making his son laugh.  Not his normal belly laughter either, something soft and leading that John has only ever heard directed at one person before.  Jeffries lowers his voice further, undoubtedly making some sort of shit innuendo.  
  
Stiles hums deeply in his throat, like he’s enjoying something particularly sweet.  He licks his lower lip and Jeffries doesn’t even pretend not to stare.  Stiles leans into Jeffries further while the man speaks softly into his ear, his lips all but touching Stiles’ skin. Stiles makes that sound of appreciation again and Jeffries lets his fingers play in the swoop of his son’s hair.  John’s eyebrow twitches.  
  
Jeffries puts his hand down on the arm of Stiles’ chair, runs his curled fingers up and down the length of it, mimicking something that makes Stiles’ eyes go dark and John can hear him say, “Wanna get out of here?”  
  
Stiles leans away, a teasing smile on his face and he looks… happy.  It only lasts a moment before he’s frowning and shaking his head.  “I can’t.  I—There’s someone else.”  
  
Jeffries looks disappointed but he still manages to smile.  He fumbles around for something on his desk after a minute.  He hands Stiles a card and winks.  “You should call me when there isn’t.”  When, not if.  And something about the smug certainty makes John want to unstrap his weapon.  Jeffries gathers up his things and leaves before either of them can respond.  
  
John watches Stiles stare at the card.  He clutches it tight in his hand before sliding it into his shirt pocket.  He looks as if he means to stand before he sits back more heavily and cradles his head in his hands, elbows on his knees.  John watches his shoulders shake once and he's on the verge of going over to him when Stiles pulls out the card, crumples it and tosses it in the can by Jeffries’s desk.  He stands and storms out without saying goodbye.

* * *

Derek is panicking.  Stiles _knows_ and he’s known for months because he’s not an idiot but now he’s not even trying to hide that he knows.  Not after this morning, not after the way he won’t meet Derek’s eyes anymore and Derek wants to stop.  He _does_.  But he’s not any better without it.  He’s more fucked up and more aware of the fact that he’s fucked up and he knows this is coming to a disastrous end but he can’t seem to do anything to derail it.

He's going to lose Stiles.  He's known it for years.  There was always going to be something that made Stiles realize how far beneath him Derek was.  It's only after Derek's cornered by Scott that he realizes he's not going to lose Stiles in the way he's always thought.  No, it's going to be so much worse than that.

He'd somehow forgotten that Stiles doesn't leave, even when it's the only thing to do.  Scott had been close to tears when he'd told him that he owed his and Stiles' frienship to Stiles’ inability to walk away, ‘to give people what they deserve.’  And Derek realized Scott was right.  Stiles would never leave him.  He'd stay and let Derek suck all the remaining 'Stiles' out of him until all that was left was something damaged and bitter and angry, something that resembled _Derek_ more than _Stiles_.

Derek doesn’t know why he’s come here.  He only knows out of everyone – aside from Stiles – this is the closest thing he has to a home and a family.  
  
John finds him sitting at the kitchen counter, coffee that’s long gone cold between his fingertips.  “Derek?” he says carefully.  When Derek doesn’t look up, John lowers himself into the seat across from him with a furrowed brow.  “Son?”  
  
Derek flinches.  John will never call him that again, not after he finds out what Derek has been doing to his real one.  “He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”  And, god, it’s so fucking true.  Pathetically fucking true.  
  
John nods like the words don’t come as a surprise.  “How come you look like the world’s tilted off its axis then?”  
  
“I’m not the best thing that’s ever happened to him.”

Silence follows the declaration.  John leans back, chewing his lower lip.  And it’s what Stiles does when he’s thinking and Derek feels something clench in his chest.  He knows John can tell this is different from Derek’s usual self-deprecation, that something’s happened even if he doesn’t know what, and that it’s on Derek.  He sighs and there’s disappointment in his frown and Derek feels it like he’s taken a blow.  “He’s thinking about graduate school,” John says slowly and Derek hadn’t known that.  It kills him that he hadn’t known that.  John’s more careful with his next words.  “Maybe you... take some time."  
  
Derek’s nostrils flare and he croaks, “That’s two years, isn’t it?”  
  
John looks at him pityingly.  “At least.”  And Stiles will want to go into something brilliant because _he’s_ brilliant and Derek knows it’ll be more like seven or ten.  John pats his hand across the table and Derek hangs his head because the last thing he deserves is to be comforted by Stiles’ dad.  “You take some time,” he says, “and you try again.”  
  
It almost sounds easy when he says it.  Derek nods and stands to leave.  
  
And John says—John says, “Derek.  You’re always welcome here.”

* * *

Stiles chooses a graduate school in Boston.  He says he’s not moving out but he takes everything with him.  Derek sits on their bed and wrings one of Stiles’ shirts that’s been deemed 'too small' between his hands.  Stiles packs around him.  Derek opens his mouth to talk about it a half dozen times because they haven’t said _anything_ apart from agreeing to _this_ , whatever it is they’re doing. 

Derek had come home early, eyes rimmed red.  Stiles’ own had widened at seeing him at a time when diurnal creatures were awake and Derek had said:  
  
‘Your dad says you’re considering grad school?’  And his voice had still carried more than a trace of his sorrow.  
  
Stiles’ face had been hard, impossible to read.  ‘I was.’  There’s no stutter in his heartbeat the way there always was when he said _fine_.  Because nothing ever was.  
  
Derek had looked at him, haunted.  ‘I think you should go.’  Stiles had stared back at him, obviously shocked, obviously hurt, obviously thinking Derek was… ‘I think you should take the opportunity to get away.’  
  
Stiles’ mouth had tightened.  ‘For how long?’  Because he remembered.  He remembered Derek didn't leave the people he loved either.  
  
Derek’s fingers had started shaking.  He dug them into the pockets of his jacket.  ‘For as long as we both need?’ _For as long as it takes for me to get my shit together, for as long as it takes for you to stop hating me_.  Stiles had started packing only minutes later.  He’d already applied, already gotten in to a few different schools, different jobs, different lives, he’d been giving himself options even though Derek knew he wouldn’t have used any of them before today.  
  
Stiles takes everything down to his Jeep and Derek can’t help him.  He should but he can’t.  Stiles comes back up to the apartment even after there’s no need and he stands by the door.  Derek sees him fiddle with the apartment key, like he’s considering taking it off the ring.  He doesn’t.  Derek doesn’t think he could’ve handled it if he had.  “I’ll see you?” Stiles says and it’s obvious he has no idea where they're supposed to go from here.  He says it like he doesn't think it's true.  
  
Derek says something that is.  “I’ll miss you.”  He can’t stand it any longer and he wraps his arms around Stiles and promises into his hair, “I—It won’t be this.  It’ll get better, I just need—I’ll be better when—” And Derek swallows down the rest because he won’t presume that Stiles will be back, even now, even at the start when it’s easy to.  
  
Stiles pushes him away and his eyes are red.  He looks angry.  He curves his thumb up under his lashes and spits out, “Bye, Derek.”  
  
Derek grabs his wrist as he turns away and he hates himself for saying it.  But he says it all the same.  “Don’t hate me.”  
  
Stiles snorts and he looks so fucking defeated when he meets Derek’s eyes.  “Only one of us hates you here, Derek, and it isn’t me.  It never has been.”

* * *

Not talking to Stiles is easily the hardest thing Derek’s ever had to do in a life full of impossible tasks.  He’s been gone eight months and Derek hasn’t gotten high in three.  He’d been trying since Stiles had left but he’d fucked up more than once because there are still times when he feels hollow, like someone’s reached in and scooped out all his vital insides and he knows what it takes not to feel like that anymore.  And he knows how easy it is to get it.  He’s going to a chapter of N.A. that’s only a few miles outside of town because they don’t exactly have a Werewolves-On-Drugs-Anonymous.  It helps a lot and the pack—the pack supports him despite his many, many mistakes.  Sometimes Isaac even slips him news about Stiles, which Derek devours greedily.  And Scott’s trying to help him find a therapist he can stomach for more than just one session.  
  
Scott calls Stiles on New Year’s Eve and his phone gets passed around to everyone while Derek tries not to stare at the receiver like it’s everything he could ever imagine wanting.  Boyd’s the last to speak to him and he pauses, meets everyone’s eyes, and holds the phone out to Derek.  
  
Derek gapes at him, snatches it out of his hand and goes out into the backyard.  His throat feels like sandpaper.  “Hey.”  And to Derek’s amazement, Stiles actually talks to him.  Talks to him like Derek never ripped out his heart, took a bite out of it and shoved it back in.  There’s no easy flow like they'd had since Stiles was sixteen, they’re too tense and cautious for that but it’s still genuine and it tells Derek everything he needs to know: That they’re both still willing to try.  
  
They’ve been talking – and not-talking – for nearly half an hour when Stiles says it's time for him to go.  
  
Derek nods, forgetting Stiles can’t see him.  He steels himself and says, “Could I maybe... Could I talk to you again sometime?”  
  
He can hear the smile in Stiles’ voice when he says, “Yeah.  Yeah, I’d like that.”  
  
Derek’s stomach flutters against his will like it did when he first realized he wanted Stiles, like Derek is falling in love with him all over again.  “Okay.  So, I’ll—I’ll call you sometime?”  
  
Stiles still has the smile.  “Yeah.  You’ll call me sometime.”

* * *

Derek tries not to call too much at first.  He waits a week after New Year’s.  He keeps to that for awhile, calling every Sunday, but soon he breaks that little pledge to himself.  He’s up to every three days now and they’re getting back to _them_ but there’s still so much distance to close.  They don’t talk about anything of import really, just Stiles’ day, Derek’s day, what they’re reading, watching, who they meet but never about what happened to them and how it all fell apart.  
  
Until Stiles brings it up.  He’s at a bar and he excuses himself from his friends and takes the call outside even though Derek tells him it's fine and that they can talk later.  Stiles waves the offer away.  Derek can hear him moving up the street, away from the chattering people who are smoking outside the door.  He’s breathing a little harder, teeth clacking.  He clears his throat and starts, “Scott says—” but he cuts himself off.  
  
It’s obvious he’s not going to start again so Derek prods, “What, Stiles?”  
  
Stiles lets out a harsh breath and Derek can imagine him leaning against one of those old brick buildings Stiles is always sending him pictures of.  “He says you’ve been doing really well.  Letting people help when you need help.  Going to meetings.  He says you’ve even been looking for a therapist.”  
  
Derek had actually found one two weeks ago.  He’s already been to three sessions.  He hadn’t told Stiles because they don’t talk about this stuff and he hadn’t known Stiles was talking about it with anyone else either.  Derek shrugs.  “I’m trying.”  Stiles is quiet so long that Derek might have thought he'd hung up if not for the sound of his breathing.  He wonders if Stiles can see his breath there.  He wonders if he’d let Derek warm him up if he was there with him.  
  
Stiles says, like the words are forced out against his will, “Was I—Was I the reason that—”  
  
And those words are the worst fear Derek has.  He closes his eyes in pain.  “Is that what you’ve thought all this time?  Stiles—” He cuts himself off because even denying it isn’t quite honest and the only chance he’s got with Stiles is if they start over again and wipe the slate clean.  “I mean, in a way.”  Stiles’ breath catches on a quiet whimper and Derek wants to kick himself for being so stupid.  “In a way it was because of you,” he says, tacking on quickly, “Because I wanted to be better for you.”  He can hear the heaviness of Stiles’ breaths and all Derek wants is to be there with him.  
  
He leans heavily on their balcony.  “I was still so angry.  Angry at the world.  Kate.  She tainted _everything_ with you and I just.  I wanted to forget.  For a little while, I wanted to forget that the last person I touched, who touched me, burned my entire family alive.”  Derek’s hand shakes around the phone and he turns his back to the railing, staring into their empty bedroom.  It's hardly a better view.  “I wanted to be able to be with you without all the crap that wouldn’t get out of my head.  I wanted one moment with you where I was _in_ the moment.”  
  
He can hear the steady thump of Stiles’ heart and he breathes out harshly, frustrated.  
  
“It was just another way to not be there though.  I didn’t realize it at first—I thought it was better than what I had but it was just another kind of horrible.”  Derek hadn’t realized that, not until after Stiles left, not until he’d let other people in on the shitstorm he had in his head.  He huffs out a laugh, completely unamused.  “You deserve so much better, Stiles.”  
  
Stiles lets out a broken sound and he says sharply, “ _That’s_ it.”  
  
Derek winces at the fed-up sound of Stiles’ voice.  “What’s it?”  
  
“That's the problem with _us_ right there,” he says and his voice is shaking.  “You make all these decisions unilaterally.  You decide what I feel, what I deserve, what I _am_ without ever asking me.”  His voice is rising with each word. “I knew, Derek.  I knew there were issues but as shit as they were, they were you.  And I loved you.  All of you.  I was willing to wait, help, whatever you wanted me to do but instead you thought disappearing into some fucking _drug_ was better than talking to me?  How do we get past that when you can’t talk to me?  How do we get past that when you’re still trying to decide what my life should be _for me_?”  
  
And Derek remembers what Stiles had said when he’d walked out.  ‘Only one of us hates you.’  There hadn’t been even a blip in his heartbeat and there isn’t one now.  
  
Stiles stops and says tiredly, “Love.”  
  
Derek blinks.  “What?”  
  
“Not love _d_ ,” Stiles says flatly.  “Love.  I love you.  That hasn’t changed.  That _won’t_ change.”  
  
Derek leans his head back and says tightly, “I want to be someone deserving of that.”  
  
Stiles’ teeth grind.  “You already _are_.  You made a mistake but it doesn’t make you a bad person.”  
  
Derek laughs and reminds him, “I've made a lot of mistakes, Stiles.”  
  
Derek can practically hear Stiles rolling his eyes.  “Congratulations, you're a person,” he says, unimpressed.  He adds blankly, "So many of those mistakes you take on aren't even yours."  
  
“Stiles—” Derek tries, exasperated.  
  
But Stiles cuts him off and his voice is—He sounds like he’s close to tears.  “How can you think so little of yourself when you’re my whole fucking world?  You’re anything but little, Derek.”  He sniffs, hardens his tone.  “I've tried.  With people who don't have train cars full of baggage.  I’ve _tried_ ,” and – for a full minute – Derek's heart stops beating, “but all I do is think about you and all you do is—you _hammer_ on this guy who is my whole fucking world and you decided he wasn’t good enough for me when he’s all I’ve ever wanted and I hate you for that.”  Stiles is sobbing and trying not to.  “You drugged him and dropped him to the bottom of the fucking ocean because _you_ decided I was better off without him and you didn’t care.  You didn’t care that I loved him.”  
  
“I have to go,” Derek says after the silence between them has lingered for so long that his skin is starting to itch.  
  
Stiles laughs, harder and harder and chokes out, “You run, Derek.”  
  
Derek’s jaw clenches.  
  
And Stiles laughs, bitterly.  “When things get hard, you run.  When I was in high school, it was literal.  But, as we got older, you learned to run and still be standing right in front of me.  You run.”  
  
It takes Derek a long time to reply, longer than he would like to admit to, but he doesn’t hang up.  He says, “I haven’t gone anywhere.  Not this time.”  
  
Stiles just sounds tired again but he says with an edge of hope, “I suppose that’s something.”  
  
And it is.

* * *

Derek is tossing the butter out of the fridge and replacing it with margarine when John walks in.  He scowls as he gets a look at all the newly empty places inside the doors but he doesn’t protest.  He sits down at the kitchen table and shakes out the newspaper.  A few minutes after Derek has grown accustomed to the new feel of the silence, he slips in, “You've been talking to Stiles.”  
  
Derek shrugs, but they both know he is anything but nonchalant when it comes to Stiles.  “I’m trying to.”  
  
John’s grin is niggling. “I know it’s not a strong suit.”  Derek considers throwing a grapefruit at his head but decides against it.  John turns to the next page and asks casually, even though they both know he’s just as not-casual about this as Derek is, “How’s that going?”  
  
Derek smiles a bit and says, “Well.”  His mouth pulls down some and he adds doubtfully, “I think it’s going well.”  He stares at John and tells him what he’s only just beginning to understand himself, “He really loves _me_.”  
  
John raises both eyebrows, as though surprised by Derek’s surprise.  “Kid thinks the sun shines out of your ass,” he says as though that’s been obvious for years.  And it probably has been.  John’s eyes cut over to him.  “But you missed that somehow?”  
  
Derek feels like banging his head into the refrigerator door.  “Apparently.”  
  
“He’s… in awe of you, Derek,” John says.  His grin turns sly and he adds off-handedly, “It’s fair enough that you missed it, you were busy being in awe of _him_.”

* * *

Derek opens the door on a perfectly ordinary Wednesday to find Stiles standing on the other side of it.  He’s grinning and he’s got bags at his feet and Derek knows it’s summer vacation but Stiles hasn’t been back to Beacon Hills in—“It’s only been two years," Derek says stupidly.  "You still have three left.”  And, god, does he hope that doesn’t sound like he’s telling Stiles to leave.  Because he’s so, _so_ not.  
  
Stiles can’t stop grinning.  His smile just keeps getting bigger but he doesn’t have any trouble talking around it.  Not the way Derek did, talking around his heart in his throat.  “It’s summer,” he says simply.  “And I came home.”  
  
Derek's mouth goes dry.  “You came home?”  
  
Stiles throws his arms around him and his skin's warm and soft when he leans into Derek.  He whispers, “I came _home_ ,” before he seals their lips together.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm an angsty mother, I know. Can I fix it with some [pretty, lupine yummyness](http://wellhalesbells.tumblr.com/)?


End file.
